Its not the milage, honey, its the years
by NCR Ranger
Summary: Dizzy Wallin's been a blue collar man for most of his days, in the days before the Locust Horde, and as they ravaged Sera. Yet now, with the planet finally quiet again, he can finally and at long last, take a well deserved step back.


A/N: _The Gears of War 5 trailer recently shown does not seem that its truly Gears of War anymore_

* * *

" Allright, darling. Don't worry; I'll get your cab all cleaned up properly. Can't have my girl's pretty face all covered in grime, now can I ? "

Needless to say, Betty the Assault Derrick couldn't respond to that in any way, but as Dizzy Wallin reached the top of the groaning metal ladder that led onto her main deck, a realativley clean rag draped over one shoulder, and a bucket filled with what limited cleaning supplies he had available, the old Gear knew with absolute certainty, that she appriciated what he was doing for her.

What he'd always done from the day he'd first been entrusted with her care.

Treat her with respect and affection. She was not ' just a machine' , not to him. Never had been. Betty was like another member of his family. One with a body of steel and armor plate rather than flesh and blood, but that was just a technicallity. Being the steward of powerful mechanical constructs had been Dizzy's life for years, since his days in the Merchant Navy, and he'd always considered them to be more than the sum of thier pieces.

By that mindset, the state that his beloved Betty had been falling into appalled him. Despite his best efforts over the years, and Dizzy's tireless diligence, dedication, and that old familar passion to keep Betty in perfect condition, all those years of rolling through the dead landscapes of Sera had done a number on her addition to the damage done to her in battles with the Locust ( such as the time when her gearbox had given out during the massive COG offensive known as Operation Hollow Stormm sending her careening into a ditch, and leaving Dizzy feverishly working, as the Locust closed in, to get her udnerway again ) , Betty had been abused by the elements as well.

It was all combined to form a wide variety of battle scars: Her windows, to begin with, had been stained and diritied, then cleaned up so many times, that there were smudges and stain _s etched_ into them. Numerous showers of razorhail had scoured off just about all her once-proudly-applied COG Blue paint, and left deep scratches all over, in every place that was open to the sky. She'd been struck by _lightning_ , even, and those hits had burnt marks into her top deck plating ( not to mention that they'd also set fire to a cargo of wheat bales stored there that Dizzy had once been ferrying ). Underneath, near missed from exploding Tickers had nearly blown her gargantuan, man height, solid matter wheels off thier giant axles. As it was, bolts, screws, and anything that could be shaken loose had been, over and over. The metal had, like with the lightning strikes, been scorched and warped, as they took the brunt of the impacts.

Betty truly had been through the wringer. Perhaps worst of all, though, more so than all that rough treatment, was that she just didn't get to fulfill any responsibilties these days: she'd been built to ferry the soliders of the COG, the Gears, into and through battles, anywhere on Sera that you could drive something, As a Combat Rig, Betty could drop those Gears right into the center of the action, wether it was deploying them into the Locust Hollow itself, using her Grindlift deployment system, or just having them scramble down her ladders and slug it out with the enemy. With Dizzy at the helm, Betty got them were they needed to be.

Not anymore. Now, she was just something past her prime, without a purpose, after many long hard years.

It was fitting, therefore, that the same could be said for the old Gear who'd reached the ladder's top, and now stood upon her weathered deck, taking a moment to rub his slightly aching shoulders.

He was dressed as usual : in clothes that were well worn ( to the point of threadbareness ) cobalt blue carpenter's jeans, a grey t shirt, and of course, his ever presnt straw hat. Like Betty, the clothes Dizzy had to his name had been put through much hard use, and for a long, long time. Again, it showed, in spite of how often Dizzy tried to wash and clean them ( which, to be honest, wasn't as often as he'd have liked it to be. ) They seemed to have dust and grime _built_ into them, weathered and abused by all these days in the elements.

It wasn't that surpising, Dizzy reflected, as he reach up to take that treasured, battered hat of his off, and wipe away a few beads of sweat that he hadn't realized where there until now, or even why. He'd spent virtually his whole life working in blue collar fields. Not that there was anything inherently wrong with working _indoors_ , but someone who didn't spend at least some of their days outside was making a mistake. Besides, being a blue collar was what Dizzy was suited for. He was the right man for the job.

More than once, though, he wondered how long long he'd been at it.

" Must be the view ", he murmured to himself, looking out over the landscape, over the low wall that ran around the deck's edge. The sun was creeping up over the horizon, spreading its orange glow through the sky.

Under it, the humble Wallin homestead lay around him. On the edge of one of the remote, independent communites that dotted the post-Locust-and-Lambent Sera, it sat: a bungalow with brick walls, and a thatched roof, with a brick chimmney rising from it. Surrounding it for miles in all directions, was ground that was acually _not_ dead, but covered in living grass, and foliage. Actual bushes, trees even, growing in scattered groves.

Looking out at all this, Dizzy allowed himself just a few minutes to savor it, as always. Caring for Betty could not be neglected, and it wouldn't be, but she'd been with him for a long while. She'd understand.

It was the view of Sera, he decided, whenever he saw it, such as now, that made him realize how long: So long, he'd finally begun to feel its effects on him.

Lingering soreness all through him, especially in his shoulders and legs. They were built and strong from so much manual work, on the ships of the Merchant fleet, and his tenure for the COG, but said work had taken its share of him, and he knew it every day, more so/or when he climbed Betty's ladders. In climbing them, he was also reminded of the heavily calloused surface of his palms, and how rough and cracked they felt. Exsessive gripping and handling of tools, the steering column in Betty's cab, and of course, his Lancer rifle.

Some reflex made him touch the fingers of one of those hands against the other palm, then gaze down at them. Yes, they were hands that had been very much used, on dangerous tasks, for long streches, for a long while.

There was no mirror up here, but he'd seen his own face, and knew how lined and weather-scourced it was as well, the same as Betty's armor ( Well, what of his face that wasn't covered in that scraggly, rough as can be beard he'd had going on ). There were scars and scratches decorating his mug from ear to ear, ones from all kinds of scources, but virtually all of them, the same that had touched Betty.

Perhaps most impactfull of all, though, was he had trouble remembering what everything was like before all this. Before his days in the COG. Before Betty. Back when Sera had been _living_ planet, instead of the ravaged, scarred, rubble smothered wasteland it currently was.

 _You're healing, Sera,_ Dizzy thought, as he made himself turn away from the vista, preparing to tend to Betty.

More to the point, he couldn't help but not notice, _he_ was just about back to a normal life as well, after battling to stay alive for so long. He was still different now, though. Equally mentally and psychically.

He still remembered those days, with odd clarity. They'd been not all sunshine and roses, that's for sure, but overall ? As a whole ?

They were still better.


End file.
